Scars

“I have a feeling you’ll get a kick out of this one.”

Gideon Marx’s voice emanates from somewhere behind the camera, which is focused on the backside of a shirtless Kurtis Slayne.

“So, this week’s little 'prompt' from management is to explain how you deal with a loss.”

Kurtis raises his arms to reveal an ax in his hands, as he momentarily holds it aloft before swinging it back down upon something obscured by his body. Other than the guttural grunt that escapes from him, there is no verbal response from Slayne to his advocate. Gideon allows his comment to linger a little longer, but instead of answering, Kurtis raises the ax for another blow. Following the THUNK of the ax meeting its intended target, Gideon speaks up again, increasing the volume of his voice in case Kurtis is once again lost in his own mysterious thoughts.

“After hearing your thoughts on concepts like love and death, do they actually expect you to give a damn about losing? Though I have to admit, I am curious to hear how you’ll respond…”

Another swing of the ax interrupts Gideon’s train of thought as the camera continues to focus on Kurtis’ back, the muscles of his thin frame rippling with every blow.

“What in the hell are you doing anyway? There has to be a better way to train than…this…”

As if to accentuate his words, Gideon scans his surroundings with the camera, revealing their location to be a rural wooded area, likely somewhere between Philadelphia and Allentown. He then brings the camera back to focus on the man who proudly calls himself The Bastard, as he lowers the ax and turns his head slightly to look over his shoulder.

“It’s not just training. It’s therapy.”

Without further explanation, Kurtis turns his attention back ahead and raises the ax for another swing. There is some brief jostling of the camera as Gideon attaches it to its tripod and then zooms out, revealing several chunks of chopped wood scattered at Kurtis’ feet.

“Therapy. Okay, I can get behind that. Chopping wood at seven in the morning in thirty-degree weather without your shirt on. Probably not ideal for most people, but for you, it actually makes sense. I, on the other hand, am freezing my ass off. So how about we wrap up this promo so I can get back to civilization?”

He barely has time to finish his question before Kurtis turns to face him and the camera, the ax gripped in his hands and a look of annoyance on his face.

“Remind me, Gideon, what exactly is your purpose?”

There is an uncomfortable silence as Kurtis stares at the man behind the camera, his ice-blue eyes as sharp as the potential weapon in his hands. With a measure of concern in his voice and with a much lower volume, the attorney stammers out his answer.

“I’m…I’m your advocate…”

“You’re my fucking lawyer. Your purpose is twofold; one, to take care of the shit I can’t be bothered with, and two, to keep my ass out of jail in case I ever take things further than Project: Honor is comfortable with.”

“Right…that’s right…”

“Which means you are on my schedule. You don’t get to question me, make suggestions, or assume how I feel about things. Is that clear?”

There is another brief pause before Gideon answers in a subdued tone. If dogs could speak, his voice would be reminiscent of one that had been beaten into submission.

“Crystal clear. Sorry…”

“Losses mean more to me than you could ever fucking imagine. In the books, I have two of them so far. Fucking Nathan O’Connor and Andrea Cross of all people. Both of them are lesser than me, lesser in drive and purpose. Beyond the halls of Project: Underground, I have two other losses. Mark Hunter and Tara Fenix. Neither fight was sanctioned or held under traditional rules, but for one reason or another, I wasn’t the last man standing against either of them. Those two losses were even worse than the other two, because on both occasions, I was humbled. Do you know what it’s like to be humbled, Gideon?”

Kurtis continues to stare ahead, his knuckles turning white from the vice-like grip he has on the ax in his hands.

“I…I think I can imagine…”

“I’m sure you can. I’m sure a lot of people who are watching this know what it’s like to be humbled. Only they’re humbled by some fat fuck in their white-collar hell, some godlike parental figure, or maybe someone who’s supposed to be their intellectual superior in some hallowed hall of learning. Being humbled like that is one thing, but being humbled physically? In a contest of violence? I can assure you that there is nothing worse in the world than finding out you’re not at the top of the fucking food chain.”

Kurtis raises the ax, likely giving Gideon Marx a sudden start, before turning his upper body and bringing its edge down into one of the un-chopped stumps at his feet. With it secured in place, he immediately turns back toward the camera, holding up his left forearm, which is wrapped in athletic tape. With his right hand, Kurtis begins to unwind the tape from his wrist as he glares ahead.

“Andrea Cross beat me because I was becoming too full of myself. Nathan got the win because he’s had that lifetime of training and attention that all favorite sons are entitled to. Tara, that was a fight I knew I couldn’t win, but it did afford me the opportunity of destroying that false idol’s trophy she carried around. And Mark? He would be crippled once and for all if Clive Darling’s other bastard hadn’t returned when he did. Yet no matter the circumstances, no matter the excuses, each of them was a loss nonetheless.”

He unwinds the last strip of tape from his arm and wrist, revealing four individual scars running over the top of his forearm. With his arm bent and his upper forearm facing the camera, we can see that the four scars vary in color, as if the passage of time between them can be visibly confirmed.

“This is what losing means to me. It’s something I never want to forget, whether I’ve had my shoulders held down for three seconds or I was thrown off my game and forced to retreat. Some might suggest that doing this to myself is worse than what either Andrea or Nathan did, and on some level they’re probably right. Physically, I was over my losses to O’Connor and Cross in a relatively short amount of time. But mentally? That’s another issue entirely. I entered this business to make scars, to leave a lasting impression one way or another. I want to be the man that nightmares are made from. I’m not here to build an impressive winning streak, but a man who has to endure losses from lesser people is hardly the kind of competitor people are going to remember. At least not for the right reasons.”

Kurtis holds his stare at the camera for a few more seconds before turning back to grab the handle of the ax and pry it from its lodging. With his back still to the camera, he continues to speak.

“Which brings me to Tyler Cage, a self-entitled little bitch who wants to make a name for himself. I can help make that happen, Tyler, just not in the way you would like. I can help you trend on social media by sending you to a fucking hospital. Videos of your childlike screams will get millions of views when I lock you in a hold and snap your fingers, one at a time. Hashtag ‘Get well, Tyler’ will be retweeted over and over by the time I’m done with you. Twelve-year-old girls across the world will cry in mourning when your pretty face is no longer recognizable. You will be a social media megastar for all the wrong reasons.”

He pauses long enough to raise the ax, his eyes locked on his target, before sending it back down with a dull thud.

“You don’t get to join Andrea, Nathan, Tara, and Mark in my memory because you’re not worth my own private publicity. There’s no need to RSVP this time, Tyler. You’re just not popular enough to make my A-list. What you are, is something that I’ll use to refocus, to remind myself of my purpose. You’re just practice…a sacrifice to something bigger than your little, fame-obsessed mind can comprehend. You get to find out exactly how my recent losses have affected me. All it’s going to cost you is a little bit of blood and a lot of pain.”

There is another pause as he continues to hack at the husks of wood scattered across the ground. After a few more strikes, he rests the ax over his shoulder and continues to speak, his breathing rapid but controlled.

“I don’t want to call you a steppingstone, Tyler. I really don’t. It’s just that my entire goal, my purpose for being here, has come back to spit in my face. The antithesis of my very being is sitting in his ivory tower, looking down on us while he signs our paychecks and pulls our strings. It seems like he’s going to ignore me now, pretend like I’m just another rookie on the C-Show. More losses aren’t going to get his attention, so I’ll have to beat you into submission to make him take notice. Indy Darling is the reason I’m going to make you scream just a little bit louder, the reason I’ll stain the canvas with more of your blood than normal, and the reason I’m willing to escalate things past the point of sprains and bruises.”

Kurtis lets the ax slide off his shoulder and fall to the ground. He takes a deep breath and once again turns his head to look over his shoulder at the camera.

“There’s no use sugarcoating it, Tyler. You’re going to be a victim. A pawn in a game that you didn’t even know was being played. At least your upcoming loss will help deliver some of that fame you so desperately desire. You get to be a trending topic. You get to be an influencer. You get to be a sympathetic star for all your screen-addled worshipers to fawn over. There’s only one thing you won’t be…”

He slowly turns to face the camera fully, his breathing now completely slowed to match his low, calm voice.

“You will not be another fucking scar on my arm.”